


Istari

by Glenstorm63



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Narya the Great, Orthanc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glenstorm63/pseuds/Glenstorm63
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of chapters from the Five Wizards' points of view, some about the corruption of Saruman, others about their own contributions and fates.</p>
<p>Complete, although minor tweaks to previously posted material may be made from from time to time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilgrim Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mithrandir is confronted with Saruman's duplicity and betrayal and ponders the history and causes.

Pilgrim Grey

Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim stood, transfixed. Horrified by the implications of what he had just heard. From the high inner chamber of Orthanc he could hear the wolves howling. No longer silent. He was now trapped safely in the tower.

In the background Mithrandir could still hear Saruman declaiming his responsibility as a servant of the Valar and proposing to keep him secure in Isengard until the end.  
Until the end? "Until what end?" 

“Until you reveal to me where the One may be found”, Saruman intoned before triumphantly revealing his intention to turn Mithrandir over to the houses of lamentation in Barad-dûr. The prize bargaining chip and fountainhead of the resistance. All would crumble.

All Mithrandir's slow, careful, courageous, exhaustive efforts to alert and inspire resistance to Sauron and protect Middle-earth would now be in vain. Not merely thwarted but utterly betrayed by one of his own order! 

But then, he reflected, he had to admit that really he was not surprised at all. He wondered why he had not trusted his own instincts and refused to come near the place. He realized his judgement was faltering, like his aging body sometimes faltered. In his desperation he had placed trust and his own safety in he whom he trusted least.  
For always had Saruman been jealous of Mithrandir and ever tried to scorn his contribution, even at the formal meetings of the White Council. 

And indeed, as he now recalled, always had Galadriel herself been wary throughout her dealings with the head of the order, this shadowy angel shrouded in white. Once bitten, twice shy she was, since Annatar, another scion of Aule graced with a body and mind of such beauty and power, had come intruding into the counsels of elves, to such catastrophe. After all her long thankless services over the ages to the welfare of peoples from many realms! And as one of the Noldor suffering still under the ban of the Valar, she had even less reason to welcome any of them. 

And as Saruman was putative head of the order, she required proof of Saruman’s commitment beyond the obvious fact that he had been sent by the greater powers. His colleagues had corroborated their collective origin and authority, but her requirement of proof of commitment had been asserted as she met all five one by one, as she had informed Mithrandir on more than one occasion. But that proof Saruman had gradually demonstrated less and less as the age progressed. 

The scorn he directed at Mithrandir, Radagast, Pallando and the other blue wizard from time to time might have been regarded as ample evidence of his desire to get the upper hand, but as Mithrandir had always granted him tolerant forbearance and gentle humor in return, Galadriel had been somewhat mollified. 

Saruman was clearly flawed like them all, but it was a burden to always be trying to work around him rather than through him when he was unable to admit his own flaws. 

No doubt of the same mind as his wife, Celeborn had remained aloof from Saruman as much as possible and only attended the meetings of the White Council when he could not avoid them. Like all the Sindar, he had maintained a level of mistrust of the West and their role in Middle-earth. After all, Morgoth may have been shut out of the circles of the world for the foreseeable future, but they had utterly overturned Beleriand and drowned it under the sea. He would never see his beloved forests of Doriath, the land of his birth again. 

As for that disaster called Numenor, in which a chosen mortal people had been lifted above most mortal cares and life expectancy, it had only resulted in greed, envy and corruption and that was before the direct influence of Sauron. So easily foreseen, yet it had been created by the powers of the West.

Oh, no, Celeborn had never trusted Saruman or those whom he represented. And it had only been through Mithrandir’s long sojourns on foot, suffering in his aged body, constantly putting himself at risk in dangerous places for the many peoples, that Celeborn and Galadriel both, had come to discern that he himself was a being on whom they could truly depend. And here he was, caught in the jaws of imprisonment.

Elrond had met none of the Valar at all and few of the Maiar, only Eonwe and some of his following in the dramatic months and years of the final campaign against Morgoth, dressed in their resplendent battle gear of the West and wielding unimaginable powers. He had therefore been in some awe of Saruman from the beginning of the five's arrival on the Eastern shore. Nevertheless he had always warmed to Mithrandir with greater ease, no doubt for the fact that it could not be hidden from him that it was he who now held Narya, the Ring of Fire, but also for Mithrandir’s evident delight in the diverse peoples of Middle-earth. 

Elrond having chosen the life of the Eldar had also taken as his fate the inevitable withdrawal from the world but this did not stop him taking hope from Mithrandir's enthusiasm and encouragement. For a time Elrond’s house once more became a centre of learning and nurture; for more than the descendants of Valandil. Clearly Narya the Great was in good hands and its potentials being put to far better use than by languishing on the edge of the Western Sea.

Cirdan was not given to speaking ill of others, much less an emissary of the Valar, but once it became clear to Elrond and Galadriel that he had quietly made Mithrandir the keeper of the third Ring of Power to sustain him through his travails, Galadriel and Elrond had begun to keep their own counsel regarding Saruman and how they might best work around him. Indeed wherever the Council would be held they had made it their habit to gather there some days or weeks before Saruman’s arrival.

As for Glorfindel, his sunny disposition and his unique status as a reborn High elf, to whom the curse of the Noldor was now superfluous, almost put him beyond such cares. He had refused to be impressed by Saruman, and treated him with all the open friendliness and respectful critical questioning that he would use with an equal or even a person he was mentoring. The fact that this offended Saruman had not escaped the notice of any on the White Council, which naturally made its other members wary of him too.

Like all the Istari, essentially being caught in the bodies of old if hale men, both Gandalf and Saruman were vulnerable to the vagaries of the slowly aging body and the advancing years on the mind. 

Forever masking their full powers even took a toll on their memories including their own origins and purpose. Having such long life with the distractions and pitfalls of the bodily experience, it was easy for any of the five to become exhausted by their burdens or distracted by some key aspect of the world of Middle-earth. Radagast’s withdrawal to Rhosgobel and his loving attentions to the beasts and birds was praiseworthy in its way, but hardly of the same order as inspiring hope and resistance to Sauron in all the free peoples of Middle-earth, which was meant to be their collective and individual purposes. In his way, Radagast had become much like Iarwain on the marches of the Shire and Barrow Downs, and had withdrawn to a little land from which he would not move unless roused as he had been recently by Saruman. 

And as is the way of those who were dubbed the Istari, the Grey Pilgrim knew firmly in a corner of his ancient mind that the original inclusion of Saruman in the company of five was probably as much a test for each of the others as a chance for Saruman's true colours to finally be displayed. Obscurely, he did have to wonder if this entire sojourn in Middle-earth was not partly a ruse by Manwe to rid the world of another troublesome spirit if it could not resist temptation. The stakes were high indeed and Mithrandir recognised that at this moment he also was being tested.

It was now clear that in the trials, exhaustion and temptations of corporeal existence as an aged man in Middle-earth and in the face of Sauron's greed and horror, now focused with excruciating intensity through the Palantir, Saruman's all-too-human failings backed by his deep knowledge and superhuman powers were coming to the fore in all their multi-faceted diversity. The strain and temptation had been far too great. This crystal's fused spectrum was now broken, with a diabolical combination of isolation, jealousy, pride, terror, denial, and lack of self-awareness.

So here he was, finally showing these true colours, symbolised by his coat of many colours like some vain strutting peacock, who had lost the power of flight, now witnessed solely by the Pilgrim in Grey.

Now, in the midst of his horror, Mithrandir looked on Saruman with compassion and grave pity. And knew that whilst they had all been complicit in his fall from grace, it was ultimately Saruman’s own will that had driven him to this pass and that there would be little room for retraction.

And Saruman may have forged his own Ring of Power but the temptation to acquire Narya the Great should he realise it was within his grasp would be impossible to resist.

So Mithrandir carefully muffled Narya from all possible perception, arcane or otherwise and frantically considered how he might swallow the bauble; and thus for a time, keep it from reach, in whatever might ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has always struck me that Narya was at risk when Gandalf was imprisoned in Orthanc but this is never referred to. There are references in Tolkien’s writings to Saruman becoming aware of Gandalf’s stewardship of the ring and being consumed with jealousy and outrage about this. But it makes no sense for Gandalf to have escaped with the ring intact if Saruman was aware of it, so I have written it as if Saruman does not know. Of course Gandalf may have left the ring in Rivendell for safe keeping and periodically taken it up to re-energise himself, and thus not had the ring on him at all, or left the ring under some obscure rock. But both these seem unlikely as the stewardship of all the rings of power seem to be characterised as a heavy responsibility. Gandalf's use of the ring to sustain him and give hope and courage to others over his travels is consistent with keeping it on his person. It also came to me recently that Saruman’s immediate inclusion in the delegation may well have been supported by the powers because they could see what a temptation it was for him and they knew he needed testing. So it is a great pity for his sake that things turned out the way they did, that he was isolated by other key players to the extent that they did not truly trust him and that he isolated himself in turn. The fact that Gandalf goes into Orthanc despite his foreboding, also says much about Gandalf's is fallibility and tendency to self doubt, both endearing human qualities, but which with their limits in usefulness. I could have included other elvish names on the White Council; there could have been twenty for all we know, but long lists get boring and I think it best in writings like this to stick to characters we know and love. Finally, I can say that I have chosen to use Mithrandir (his Sindarin name) not Gandalf (his Mannish name) as this emphasises his nobility; whereas conversely I have used the Mannish Saruman, not Elvish Curunir, to emphasise Saruman’s fall from grace.
> 
>  
> 
> See next chapter for what is going on in Saruman's mind.


	2. White Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saruman contemplates his own history as he faces down Gandalf in the Tower of Orthanc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this should be its own story but it is really a follow-on chapter to Pilgrim Grey, so here it is.  
> I never coped with the movie representation of the Fighting Uruk-hai struggling as fully grown adults out of the ooze. It was too schlock-horror; not genuinely horrifying. As Tolkien said, the Orcs breed in the same manner as all the Children of Illuvatar and thus Saruman's project must have been one based on something much more horrific; forced breeding between Orcs and Humans.

White Wizard

Saruman stood trembling with fear, resentment, anger, frustration and horror. He was fully aware of what he was doing and what it meant. That it had come to this! The subjugation and degradation of one of his colleagues had never been in his original plan. It had always been for him to direct a concert of forces, both arcane and military which moved with precision and deadly force.

He wasn’t even sure he intended to follow through on the threat he had just made; to hand Gandalf over to Barad-dûr.

But long ago Saruman had gone his own way, fed up with the pious, welded-onto-the-past rubbish of those elves. Still pursued by that ridiculous vain-glorious oath of Feanor’s and the ban of the Valar, after how many thousand years? They all should have taken ship long ago. Not long after he arrived at these shores it had quickly become obvious that they were never going to emerge from their valleys, grottos, woods and lonely coastlines to help lead the force that was required to hold Sauron back. Never again. They were far too disdainful, aloof and self-absorbed. And un-numerous. They were still holding jealously to those rings, holding back the tides of time and that really was their total focus. And Thranduil was just in denial, pretending he was Thingol Greycloak deep in the caves of Menegroth. They had all become as ghosts inexorably drifting invisibly into the background of the world, just holding on with their fingertips. The presence of the elven people in general may be hidden and the spell the rings exerted may appear subtle in these mortal lands, but in the long term the larger effect they had was to suppress the rise of the other races, especially that of mortal men doomed to die, and most especially men unblemished with the blood of Barahir and the ancient Houses of Hador and Beor. The elves had their lembas and they were eating it too, sustaining them over an interminable time as they became more and more ethereal and transparent. And they never shared it.

Clearly Gondor could have been used but they were already the crumbling bulwark against the east and were in steady decline. Like all his order Saruman was under duress to inspire resistance to Sauron in others but Gondor had lived so close to the presence and horror of Sauron for so long that it was numb, just plodding along awaiting the inevitable defeat. 

He had tested the horseboys on several occasions and they were hotblooded to be sure, but with unbending pride. They had proven unmalleable as a people; too stupid to get their heads out of their small concerns, their mead halls, their horses, green fields and the grand windswept mountains which they loved. They had also tied themselves to failing Numenor by Cirion’s uncanny piece of hocus-pocus. Saruman had once climbed to the Halifirien on Amon Anwar in Anorien and as he climbed could feel the bond of the two people’s stiffen and deepen. The House of the Stewards was clearly one to be reckoned with but not in the way he needed. The last stumbling efforts of Numenor, also touched by that curse because of the elven blood in their king’s and steward’s veins, were beneath contempt! 

He needed rawer material. So he had gone East, searching the people of the lands of the River Running, then beyond to the Balchoth and the Wainriders. He had taken Pallando and his companion Alatar with him, but they encountered the agents of Sauron already at work amongst the Eastern hordes and that work was already far advanced. So he had persuaded them to stay in that broader region and work to do what they could to reverse the trend, whilst he turned to other parts. That was the last he had heard of them apart from some appalling rumour of schools of mysticism that they had apparently established. Dolts! 

As for Radagast, that useless fellow had been easy to shrug off as he increasingly become enamoured of the beasts and birds of this grey world. His head was down and could not be diverted. Yavanna had much to answer for.  


And then Mithrandir! He had been like a thorn in his side the moment he arrived on these shores, coyly showing his sunny disposition by smirking at Saruman from behind his grey cloud of pipe-weed smoke. And lately he had deliberately kept crucial matters from the head of the White Council, matters that were Saruman’s own especial domain!

Saruman let out a deep exasperated breath as he considered his next move and what had brought him to this pass.

Once the hopeless situation had become absolutely clear, Saruman had, in desperation, decided that the hybrid vigour of the men of Dunland and the Orcs of the Misty Mountains was the best he had available to get what he needed. Right on his doorstep. It was one of the reasons he had chosen Isengard in the first place. 

Strong, wiry and muscular. With a mistrust for the Numenoreans who had hunted them in the Dark Years and more recently an abiding and burning hatred for the North Men from the upper Vales of Anduin, who had pushed them out of the fair fields of Calenardhon. They now scratched a living from the hollow hills and high fells and the empty lands north to the Greyflood. The men of Dunland were fertile ground for manipulation. So Saruman had enticed families from Dunland to Isengard; offering security, warmth, food and status. He had trained the women to cook and clean for their men whom he employed... and give them comfort... They had given comfort all right. And not just to their own men. Some of the orcs of the Misty Mountains were almost handsome after a good wash – in a smooth demonic kind of way, their elven ancestry still visible in their striking features and swept back ears - and they had proved most willing. And the men of Dunland had got far more comfort than they had ever dared imagine. They had three key orders. Train, fight and breed. Deep below Isengard were thousands of cells occupied by orc-women. They had come to Isengard in the dark of the moon, with the lure of dry, warm caves with plenty of food to whelp their imps. And whelp they had in great numbers. That was already several generations ago now. The worn out bodies of the pure-blood brood mares of both strains had all been consumed long ago. Their hybrid great-great-grand-children trained, fought and bred here now; taller, broader, hardier and stronger. They hungrily awaited the chance for some horseflesh… and the flesh of the horseboys. They had been promised.

Saruman opened his eyes and realised he did not know what to do yet. So he had Gandalf’s staff taken from him and sent the old man to the frigid summit of Orthanc. There he could contemplate his folly.  


Saruman’s hands twitched and his eyes strayed fitfully more than once to the dark orb that lay atop a pillar, covered by its leaden dome.


	3. Robes of Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Radagast comes to better terms with his role in the world.

Robes of Brown

A tall elderly man lifted his head from his work in splinting the wing of a grey goshawk and gazed intently into the evening sky of early autumn, purple streamers against a soft orange haze, the sun reaching its last rays upward. One hand gently held the bird still as it stood clutching his knee trustingly with yellow talons, its gold and black eyes undimmed by the pain it was feeling.

Swiftly, he completed his task, tying off the last of the soft bark strips that held the wing bones and splint in place, carried the bird into the tiny cottage and put it gently on the low shelf mounted on the wall. There were already several ravens, one with a broken beak, another with a broken toe, a herring gull far from home with only one foot and a great horned owl with only one eye. They glared at the intruder but shuffled aside to make room, obligingly enough.

The man offered the goshawk some water laced with a secret herb and it deigned to drink. Once done, he put the bowl aside and stepped back outside.

Pulling his long dark brown hair heavily flecked with grey back from his face, and quickly lacing it in a rough knot, faced to the south west. put his fingers to his temples, and closed his eyes.  


He could feel a troubling of the ether. The blotting of Middle-earth's various unique local energies by the emanations from the Dark Tower of Mordor had been growing steadily, creating clots of despair and fright across the lands. But now he could detect something else and it clearly came from Isengard. Never had he felt such a call, if call it was. In all his dealings with Saruman over many hundreds of years, Saruman had always maintained an opacity which blocked deeper examination and certainly had never reached out in such a way. No, it was undeniably stamped with another quality entirely.

It would have to be Mithrandir. Something was amiss.

He raced inside and found his staff, a blanket, some honey cakes and a skin of water. Closing the door, he walked off into the soft dusk, out the gates of the stockaded village where he lived and across the bridge which swung over the fosse. The Woodman gate-guards did not question him, this quiet self-assured man who had lived here time immemorial. He was their stable force. Radagast; their very own beacon of hope in a world grown bleak.

Radagast climbed steadily into the surrounding wooded hills far from prying eyes.

After several miles, the darkness had grown but Radagast knew his path well and climbed without incident up towards a bald hilltop with granite tors. Reaching a sheltered bay in the jutting rocks with a clear view across the upper great Vale of Anduin towards the Misty Mountains, Radagast planted his staff firmly on the ground and began to chant softly under his breath. He continued in this manner for some time, stooped, took a draught from his water skin and kept going again, his fingers grasping his staff.

It was Gwaihir the Windlord who found Radagast in the grey light of early dawn two days hence, still caught in his trance, mumbling monotonously. Turning on his enormous pinions he back-winged down onto the granite tor several yards above Radagast's head.

"It seems you are behind the times Master Wizard" he rasped harshly, sending a shiver through Radagast's frame who stumbled and sat down suddenly, blinking wearily up above him to the gigantic bird against the lightening sky.

"I heard your song to me three nights ago but I was already spying out the lands and was on my way to Isengard as you asked. Crebain of Dunland are abroad and I trust them not and the Isen has been crossed by beings of great evil, nine to be sure and no doubt they have been conferring closely with the head of your order these last two days."  
Radagast's eyes snapped open at that remark and twisted around, staring wide eyed at his informer.

Gwaihir gave an eagle's wry laugh, and added "Yes, Master Wizard. Mithrandir informs me that Saruman has fallen and has been in the clutches of the enemy for many years now. Indeed, I arrived in bare time to snatch Mithrandir away from the summit of Orthanc, just as the nine were approaching. It has been many a year since I have had had occasion to pass nearby, else I could have told you long ago that Saruman houses Wargs by the hundreds and has bred a monstrous army of goblin-men who can brave the light of day. Doubt not my word now. Woe will come of this, or I am not one of the Eagles of Manwe."

"Indeed, I am sure you jest not, Master Windlord, yet I wish it were so, for my heart fails me."

"No doubt! And glad I am that I hastened to Isengard when I heard your call else I may have been too late. And if Mithrandir had not bid me come to you, you may have crouched there on the ground jibbering your calling song until you wasted away!"

Radagast ignored that and swallowed what was left of his water. "So where is Mithrandir now? Is he safe?"

"Who knows? I left him roaming the fields of the King of Rohan searching for a horse. An Eagle of Manwe I may be, but I am not employed to bear burdens. Two wizards only have I had occasion to trust. He and thou are the last two beings with whom I have had converse in the last days. The Lady Galadriel is another matter. Perchance I will fly to exchange words with her before I return to my eyries. I feel her mind bending to me as I speak."

"Please offer her my blessings," said Radagast. "I do confess, Master Windlord that my part in these affairs has been sorely remiss and I realise now that I have allowed myself to play rynel skulk to Saruman, almost to the ruin of all. But truly I have had few dealings with Saruman for many hundred years and did not guess he had come to such a pass. I have much to ponder. My thanks for passing this way and rousing me. My village people will have missed me and my mending creatures will be sorely bereft. But did Mithrandir send no words for me? I sorely wish to hear anything he might offer."

"Mithrandir tells me that the storm is coming, no doubt of it. But in the midst of his worries and weakness he did indeed say your name… and bid me say this;

'When the wings of storm buffet the treetops and the dark hail thunders down, whilst evil cries its deadly curse, Aiwendil, Aiwendil, keep your feet to the rock, spread your arms and your cloak across the forested valleys and the small creeping things of the earth. Night may fall and the air grow stale, while all hope sinks into the Western Sea. But keep well to your task and hold on to your strength for the stars will shine on and the sun may come again and your charges may be all those left to repopulate the earth. Remember Yavanna and the Girdle of Melian.'"  
"What say you to that Master Browncloak? I had to come here after being charged with such a message."

"Let me think on it, for the words have ill omen." Radagast paused and licked his dry lips. "But there is some hope in them still. It may be that Mithrandir intends that even if all else withers and wastes away, that I may keep a corner of the world, this corner, alive for future days. But even that is a heavy burden. The heaviest so far. And one for which I am ill prepared. But then… who better? Perhaps the beasts and birds of Aiwendil may take hope. They at least shall not choke in the dust and ash of Mordor."

"And long may it be ere you are driven to such straits!" intoned Gwaihir. "For myself, I shall now fly to Laurelindorinan and speak with the Lady. She sees farthest I deem. Mayhap we shall share our visions of what is moving for the profit of all that is fair in the world. Farewell."

"Farewell!" Radagast waved weakly as he felt the wind in the great wings beat him back down before the Windlord flung himself into the mist-strewn valley and disappeared from sight before climbing steadily up and up, beating slowly into the rays of a golden sun.

…

As he crept carefully down out of the hills towards the Woodmen's village, leaning heavily on his staff, Radagast reconsidered the many hundreds of years since he had been in Middle-earth and realised that Mithrandir spake truth. He had never truly warmed to the larger task and instead had looked to the ground and the small wild things, leaving Saruman and Mithrandir and the White Council to carry the burden. But he was Yavanna's chosen after all and here at least he knew his task was clear.

He nodded weakly to the men at the gate and accepted a strong arm as he was supported back to his small cottage to tend to his charges.

Before he was left alone, he said quietly: "And please tell the head-man and head-woman that I need to speak to them as soon as may be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Radagast is an underutilised character in both The Hobbit and TLOTR. Philippa Boyens obviously had something to say about that in The Hobbit movie series and I found it truly enchanting. But my take on Radagast is a little different. He may have not met the higher task which was assigned to him and instead allowed himself to become "enamoured" by the beasts and birds and stuck to just one corner of the earth. But in the end, if all else falls, and the ravening hoards of demonic humanity in the form of orcs and trolls and goblin-men ravage the earth, there must be a haven of safety for the wild things, so that when all is over, there is a sacred place from which life can re-emerge. Thus Radagast in my mind, is the Middle-earth/European Dark Ages equivalent of Noah, acting as steward of the wild things. As the worse does not come to the worst as we well know, he did not have to perform this role then. But perhaps he is still there, in a corner of the Greenwood taking stock and awaiting the day his services are needed like never before.


	4. Blue Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Alatar and his contribution to the War of the Ring and the resurrection of Mithrandir on the summit of Zirakzigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien has always been a stickler for taking despair and isolation and individual burden to the nth degree. Frodo, Gandalf, Denethor, Saruman, Aragorn. I am a bit sick of that. The loss of the two Blue Wizards, the corruption of Saruman and the small scope of Radagast seems to be a part of this pattern. For my mind I like to focus more on the moral support and courage of collaboration. I like to pose the possibility that at least one of the Blue Wizards was still around and was able to make some contribution to the War of the Ring, albeit from a distance. Here's my imagination gone wild. Please feel free to make comments.

Blue Temple

A small city of white and red houses, markets and temples sprawled on either side of a brown sluggish river. The river wound through cliffs and low rocky hills with narrow groves of terebinth, quince, apricot and almond before swirling lazily into a great briny inland sea. Ravens, gulls and vultures flapped and soared. A scoop of pelicans were soaring in thermal spirals to dizzying heights. The sound of sparrows could be heard echoing through the narrow dirt streets and walled produce gardens. On a great paved way, were wains being drawn by great kine, lowing occasionally and tossing their short blunted horns, hauling grain and produce and many people, walking, carrying bundles of brush and sticks with children skipping and holding hands. Across the shimmering distance on the far Western side of the inland sea, a small range of mountains could be dimly guessed, rising their heads into the low sky. Who knew what could be seen from their distant summits?

Eddies and dust devils swirled into an airy temple through many pillars. It sat atop a rise; one cool arcade looking to the markets, another to the poorest quarter of the city and another to the orchards and gardens above the riverbank with a view to the great inland sea. It was known far and wide as the Blue Temple, the Temple of Water and other names besides.

Its great dome rose far above, its supporting marble pillars and ribbing covered in intricate tile designs of interlacing leaves and flowers. A blue glass panel at the summit of the dome glowed, throwing a slowly moving circle of light onto the floor.

A light gong rang a silvery note into the air; its vibration pitched exactly to last a full minute till it faded beyond all hearing before being struck again for the next four. 

The sound of novice’s footfalls could hardly be heard as their soft slippers pattered and slithered lightly on the tiled and marbled floors. Only the light swish of their creamy robes whispered across the expanse echoing and reverberating slightly under the dome, to where a tall elderly man with a full head of fine white hair braided to the ground stood swathed in blue robes watching the novices with a benign peaceful expression.

Alatar had risen in the night and personally drawn the crystal clear water from the deep wells that underlay the temple and filled the gutters which supplied water to the temple kitchen and living quarters and the several cisterns which sat on the outer walls of the temple, for the use of the people. It was only in the soft darkness before dawn that he was joined by his senior acolytes and was able to slow his pace somewhat.  


Clean sparkling water had been his gift to the people of this region and those who became his followers. Whilst the city was on a river and its waters could be diverted for irrigation of crops without ill effects, Alatar had discovered to his dismay that its waters carried an evil humour in the summer and autumn months when it ran green, which caused the gripe and the flux and swiftly ended the lives of the ill, the small children and the elderly, not to mention the living creatures that would otherwise have drunk direct from its edge. So after personally designing and constructing the underground canals and aqueducts that carried snow melt from upstream aquifers to those directly below his temple, he had carried out his task until sunrise, almost without fail, for nearly fifteen hundred years. It was both his statement of generosity, compassion and love as well as his demonstration of humility and penance. It was also his first daily meditation in strength, balance and fortitude.

His cult was based on all these qualities and he had deliberately created and maintained it personally with several purposes in mind. 

In the distant past, as he had travelled, with Curunir and Pallando into the East, he found that he ceased to be useful in the cause against Sauron if he constantly travelled. He found it nigh on impossible to gather an audience unless he was engaged in deeds of healing or direct assistance. The grinding poverty faced by the inhabitants of the lands to the North and East of Mordor stood in the way of inspiring resistance to Sauron’s influence. The plight of the fowls of the air, the beasts of the field and the people had touched his heart.

Before he had arrived, the people had survived by bucketing clean water directly out of the river in teams during spring and sloshing it into cisterns along the river bank. But this was not sufficient water for two whole seasons and he discovered that by mid-summer, many of the cisterns carried water that made animals and people sick regardless. It had become an accepted saying in the region. 

“Have ten children maybe more. Four for the flux and summer plagues. Three for the overlord’s endless war. Two for the fields to break their backs. One to breed a half score more.”

It meant that the people had a grinding fatalism and attitude of grieving hopelessness and a hardness of manner which made it seem that the region had a curse upon it. The women were constantly bearing children and they also died in childbirth with alarming regularity. The saying about having ten children was clearly not a woman’s saying. Alatar believed he had a duty to do something about this state of affairs.

For the people had clearly stayed because the soils along the river were so deep and the presence of the Inland Sea moderated the climate this far north, they could thus grow many fair foods with relative ease.

When he had first come to this land, on the Eastern side of the Sea of Rhun, he had had company. Curunir and Pallando had travelled with him then, charting the lands and assaying the potential places of greatest resistance. They had visited the Iron Hills, the Lords of Rhovanion and the Twin Cities of Dale and Erebor and were somewhat assured. But apart from the Dwarves, they were as chaff against the wind, should Sauron rise and take his seat in Mordor once again. The Elvenking’s scouts could tell that these were no ordinary men, and the Elvenking had set up pavilions on the edge of the Greenwood to consult with them, but even he was not impressed. He had short patience for all three and did not even invite them into his halls, before dismissing them and sending them on to Esgaroth. 

Throughout their sojourns they had originally walked on foot through the empty lands but gradually had taken to hardy ponies and later to a strange beast with two humps and shaggy wool which was rumoured as able to withstand the biting winds of the fabled cold desert even further to the North-east in the Red Mountains. They had learned many strange tongues. They had the time. And they earned the grudging respect of the people they encountered. They deliberately did not cross their own paths too frequently else the rumour of their immortality became known and was used against them. They had heard the word “witch” more than once.

It could not be said that Curunir gave friendship but as the head of the order he had focused on duty first and had originally accompanied Pallando and Alatar to that fabled region of cold dry windswept high plains. It was fascinating but disappointing. The few people were scattered and almost wild. They were hardy and very long lived and together with their rustic elven features they appeared to be descended from the Avari, but they were mortal. There was no writing. They kept livestock that wandered the chill lands and they had a musical oral tradition that helped them survive and see the cycles of the seasons through the year. They were admirable but fiercely independent and aloof, so it was unlikely that Sauron would have cause to harness their services. 

It was upon their return to the cluster of villages above the mouth of the Red River that Curunir had declared his intentions to visit the dwarves of the Iron Hills lest the products of their mining fall into the hands of the evil one and off he had ridden alone, to the north and then west on a glossy black horse from the plains of Rhovanion that he had requisitioned.

Pallando had taken this as his cue and had departed on his camel south and west towards the Ash Mountains to determine the extent to which the Orkish peoples of Mordor lived on the northern slopes of those mountains and with any degree of freedom, autonomy or self government. 

That was the last Alatar had heard from him and it was shortly after their departures that Alatar made his commitment.

Whilst the Istari had all been sanctioned to ever be wanderers and warned against taking up fixed abode, in Alatar’s humble opinion, it had become increasingly clear that unless he personally inspired the local people to heal themselves by some clear practical example, he was never going to inspire them to resist the greed and horror and degradation of Sauron. 

With many long talks with the leaders, he realised that with time and the right approach, the cluster of villages could become a small city; a city of peace and tranquillity which could be a beacon of hope in its own right. He would become the head of his own order amongst the mortal people of this place and he would teach that generosity, compassion, love, patience, humility, strength, balance and fortitude together were the source of peace, wisdom and prosperity. 

He demonstrated this daily through his toil for other’s welfare. His toil was also his penance for taking up fixed abode. But it was worth it. He brought the clean spring water to the sanctuary he established betwixt the villages and it became a temple and a school in the midst of a small city. His disciples went out from the place and spread their wisdom far and wide, whilst Alatar remained.  


…  


Preparation for the colder season ahead had begun in earnest. On this day, a day of early autumn, Alatar could smell the odour of drying apricots, the roasting of terebinth nuts and the cooking of grain and the smoking of fish… and the farts of his followers. 

Through long practice, he brushed away these distractions and sitting in an active pose upon a low plinth in front of a hall of novices and acolytes, slipped easily into his rhythm of breathing, feeling the touch of his own breath upon his upper lip and nostrils, taking his awareness to all the parts of his body, then beyond. But for such an ancient sage, today he felt unable to descend into the dharma. It was not the constant trembling pressure of Sauron that pushed from the South. He had long since taught himself and his followers to block the worst of its influence. No, today there was something else. Was it a call? It came from the lands far beyond the other side of the inland sea. And it was on the most intimate mode. Taking it in his stride, he gently and respectfully picked up the threads from his hall of minds and carefully reached across the leagues and mountains and made contact to the source. It was Mithrandir! He was in dire straits and had reached a state of panic.

Alatar’s mind was filled with a chaotic tumble of impressions which gradually resolved into a panorama of a walled city amidst tall mountains, seen from a great height and filled with monsters. A hideous image of a distorted and corrupted Curunir bled under all these impressions and Alatar realised that something in the greater plan had gone terribly wrong. There was a plea for assistance and Alatar gave all he could of the courage, fortitude, patience, generosity, compassion and love that was held in this hall. Mithrandir appeared skeletal in his mind’s eye. So he maintained the flow for as long as he could, only gradually relinquishing each mind in his own hall as it became unable to maintain the flow. 

“Enough fool! But thank you! I may call upon you again before all is done,” was the terse response. Alatar broke the contact and gently brought each one of his remaining subjects gently back to their bodies.  


He opened his eyes and looked across the hall. Some were slumped and he gathered himself to attend to their needs. Nearly every eye was on him. They were wanting an explanation and they deserved one. This was unprecedented. So he gave the bare essentials to the hall and left it at that. But later that day, he called a special convocation for the following month and after many women and men had arrived from far and wide, he gravely and honestly told all his followers, what had occurred and a little of the place of this school of the spirit in the wider scheme. But whilst many were surprised and others a little shocked, there was nothing he told them that had been in any direct contravention of what they had already learned. He had shown them wonders before. 

It was from this point on that a large delegation came to him and sought to train further in this mystery. They all wanted Sauron defeated. They wanted to be available for the distant Grey Pilgrim should he need their support again. They had seen him in their mind’s eye very clearly indeed and did not doubt the necessity.

Alatar was overwhelmed with humility and beamed at them gratefully before prostrating himself before them.  


…  


It was several months later in the depths of winter that much the same thing occurred again. But this time, the disturbance was subtle and subterranean. It was if it was felt through the rocks of the ground.  


In the Great Blue Temple, all were at chores: sweeping, mopping, abluting, dressing. Some were breaking their fasts, others feeding the poor. Alatar caused the great water bell to be rung in the appointed tone and within minutes, the great central hall was filled with over two hundred disciples. 

Alatar sat directly on the floor this time and laid his palms flat upon this as well. All followed suit. After the usual preliminary clearing of the minds, Alatar took the focus and power of the voluntarily offered minds around him and weaving them together carefully, he calmly took his awareness to the source of the troubling. 

Fire, pain, darkness, water, cold… terror. It was only the long discipline of his followers that kept them from recoiling from the horror of what they together all felt. They could feel the despair and the clutching and the terrible muscularity of a thing of slime and power. But they maintained their breathing and pushed away this awareness of terror and instead imbued the connection with their flow of love, fortitude, compassion, strength and balance. They maintained this for many hours. From time to time, one would rise and leave for a while, see to their needs and then return. It dragged on for days.  


Those who had chosen to not be a part of the mystery, calmly dealt with the populous and rose in the night to lift the well water.

It was on the third day that some of the disciples began to look askance at each other but Alatar merely opened his eyes, held his finger to indicate fortitude and acceptance, nodded reassurance and continued. The subterranean battle was continuing and he continued to harness the minds which maintained an awareness of the horror but continued to slough it off and replace it with calm and courage.  


By the eighth day, the following had dwindled somewhat as many had had to withdraw and take rest for longer periods, but there was still a steady stream back in. Alatar remained, merely accepting a small drink from time to time.

Then matters shifted rapidly. All in the great hall could feel the rush of fire and the blinding light of a snow capped mountain. The minds in the hall were being lashed with whips of fire and they just as rapidly washed this away with the warm waters of love, balance, courage and compassion. 

Then for two further days and nights Alatar continued to direct this force to Mithrandir and it was accepted without comment. All Mithrandir’s concentration was needed to finish the task at hand. All in the hall could feel the boundless, raging, hideous power of the demon of fire on the mountain and all gave everything they could to replace its power with peace. The hall refilled.

Suddenly they felt a final call and like a whiplash of falling ice and freezing lightning, their woven mind wrapped about the fire demon and it was pushed onto the mountainside far below, breaking the mountain in its ruin.

The floor of the great hall quivered. A shard of the blue glass at the top of the dome cracked and fell to the floor far below, shattering the silence.

All eyes opened. Alatar sat upright in his place. But his robes were gone; vaporised. And before their eyes, his ancient naked body glowed bright, turned white and collapsed into a pile of fine ash.  


He was gone.


	5. Deepest Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pallando finds an ending and is finally able to leave Middle-earth having done what little he could to achieve the greater goal.

Deepest Blue

There was a small corner of Pallando’s mind which was still his own. It had screamed in horror nearly eighty years ago as the last of his identity was pushed into a dark corner of his brain and locked in and it was still screaming now.

He was not in command of his own body and neither could he dissolve his body and wing his way back to Valinor as had Melian long before. The body of an aging man that had been formed for him by the greater powers was the fate that he still carried and it was not his to vacate at will, no matter the straits.

His body was alive. Alive and well, but it was not his own. It ate and drank well. It exercised well. It rested well. But the forces which had taken command were too potent to eject.

For long before whilst the Ülairi were still stirring the dust and ash of Gorgoroth with their re-awakening, Pallando had been captured and taken alive by the Dark Lord’s spies. 

It had happened like this…

After parting from Alatar and Curunir following their return from their sojourns into the East and North East, Pallando had taken himself amongst the Orkish peoples on the northern slopes of the Ash Mountains. There he had offered tokens of peace and of healing which were almost immediately rebuffed. But over several hundred years of maintaining a non-threatening presence, he had quietly and gradually turned the hearts of many of those people in a productive and fruitful direction. He taught healing techniques that these tortured people had long forgotten since they ceased to be the wandering Avari. Pallando stirred long forgotten memories and dreams that brought many of them back to him again and again to learn more. He offered training to some of the Orc Healers and they often found that his methods worked for them like oil works for a squeaking wheel. Their hunger for peace, healing, life and liberty was re-awakened. 

Taking courage from these experiences, Pallando had gradually taken his leave and slowly struck East and wandering the plains of Rhûn, established himself amongst the nomadic peoples who hunted and husbanded the Great Kine of Araw. There he learned and taught many things before he edged his way slowly towards the sad waters of Lake Nûrnen in the South of Mordor. There he encountered the fertile volcanic soils and the bitter waters being used to raise crops to feed a growing nation of slaves and soldiers and scattered tribal communities. He had been amazed by what he saw. The vitality and wiry grit of the Orkish peoples combined with the ingenuity and food plants of the people from Near Harad, was truly inspiring. He had come among them, disguised. His long sojourns amongst the people of the Ash Mountains had taught him subtle ways to not draw attention to himself and to muffle his appearance so as to seem an ancient Orkish great-grandfather. So he moved quietly into the South of Mordor, again offering healing around the edges of the guarded and enslaved population. 

Around Nûrnen’s edges and upon its smooth surface, there was a modicum of peace to be found by the enslaved. Eels and catfish could be snared and sometimes even stranger dark creatures would be caught and brought home for the pot. Coracles and reed boats could be fashioned and the relentless beat of the drum could be escaped by poling or rowing out onto its surface; with only the drear reflections and the plaintive sound of water birds for company. In due season, the reedbeds were filled with the lament of loons and sandpipers and this was as calming music to the anxious ears of the people. Here songs and dances had grown up which provided a form of healing that Pallando recognised. It was a bonding of the lost, bereft, enslaved peoples to the lands which they had come to call home. And it was this impulse which Pallando had decided to slowly harness. Over a patient three hundred years, a complexity of meaning was woven into the dances and songs with his encouragement.  


This did indeed assist the enslaved peoples. It made them healthier and happier and enabled them to work more strongly but the slave masters found that over time, their slaves also had more time for themselves and this meant that they could fall to talking of freedom and life away from the yoke.

And then only about eighty years before, it became plain to Pallando, that Sauron had begun to return. Banners bearing the Great Eye began to appear and the livery of the senior slave masters changed. The chill presence of the Ülairi could now oft be felt wandering the fields about Lake Nûrnen, seeking something. 

Pallando was aware that they would be able to find him like a moth finds a lamp and it was on a dark dark night in winter that Pallando had to make the hard decision to leave before he was found. But he had left it too late. His love of the people had kept him too long and he knew that the stricture of the Valar to not take up fixed abode had come back to bite him.

For after he had slipped away past the guards using arcane means, he had found his way blocked. Three glowing kings stood in his path, visible to the eyes of the Maia. And then they surrounded him, throwing spiked nets over him and trussing him in the dark. Then he was taken to the Dark Tower and brought before the Eye. 

The Black Hand had reached out of the shadows and proffered Pallando a Ring, a glowing golden Ring with a black stone. When Pallando had refused, his hand was grappled and the Black Hand placed the Ring on his finger perforce. Immediately, Pallando was caught in a vice from which there was no escaping and into his body rushed that dark spirit, unpicking Pallando’s anchors to his own mind. From then on, it was from a dark corner of his being that Pallando could look out helplessly and see to what dark purposes he was being put.

For Pallando was commandeered to return to all his previous haunts and there to employ the trust he had developed with the people of vast plains of Rhun and the Orcs of the Northern Ash Mountains to persuade them to join the cause of the Black Land. The complete annihilation of Gondor and Rohan and access to the fertile lands of the Anduin were the offered reward.

Pallando did his work well, after a fashion. All his techniques and knowledge were used with precision and greater skill then even he could have employed. It was as if the mind of Sauron knew him better than he did himself. He wondered how long he had been watched. And so, the Orcs of the Northern Ash Mountains crossed the high peaks and came down into the Plains of Gorgoroth to offer their services. The Easterlings were set on fire by Pallando’s gentle powers of persuasion and began to breed vast herds of their great Kine for draught and slaughter to feed the armies of the south and horses to pull their fighting wains to the West. He was then directed South to the Corsairs of Umbar and the peoples of Harad and continued his labour as vassal to the Lord of Despair.  
…  
And so it was that as the King of the West led his little army towards the Teeth of Mordor to challenge the Dark Lord and treat with the Mouth of Sauron, Pallando now stood upon the topmost turret of Barad-dûr, constrained to surveying the pitted piles of ash and slag that stood about as far as the eye could see and the great looming mass of Orodruin and he knew his greatest despair. 

But then it was he found a rare moment. The Great Eye was bent to the Black Gates and was blind to all else. Pallando found himself able to intrude back into the fortress of his own mind again and he found himself looking skyward and there he saw a skein of stars shining in the firmament, a sight he had been forced to withhold his gaze from for many a year. They quickly covered in clouds and vapours so instead he turned his attention to a faint troubling of the forces directly to the South-west, upon the slopes of Orodruin itself. Glancing askance over his shoulder as it were, he confirmed that Sauron’s attentions were still fully occupied and he turned his Maian awareness to what lay there.

Almost unable to believe what he perceived, he observed two, no, three small figures ascending the mountain; two mortals supporting each other in the choking dust; one almost consumed by the terrible burden it bore; another creeping upon them with diabolical hunger and craving. He took it all in with a rush of terrible shock and terrible hope and unwillingly wrenched his attentions away lest his inner gaze be detected. 

…

The shock wave that went through the land and toppled the Tower of Barad-dur, making the peak of Mount Doom explode in molten fire and ash was a welcome end. As he fell, tumbling a thousand feet into the abyss, Pallando was finally freed from the constraints of his body and the constraints of Sauron’s clutch. Only one task was still appointed to him, for as the chains loosed and his Maian spirit winged its way back to the lands from whence he came, he passed two lonely figures surrounded by fire and lava on the dread slopes. He breathed the last of his hope, his healing and his fortitude into their troubled hearts and as he passed he heard: “So let us forgive him! For the Quest has been achieved, and now all is over. I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pallando's story as I have sketched it it could have become an epic full scale horror story in its own right. But all these chapters were always meant to be brief. I am interested in whether I have struck a chord with his fate, or whether I should have positioned him much further to the east and south. I wanted him in Mordor at the end and I wanted to give a last moment of freedom before death took him. I originally positioned him on one of the Towers of Teeth, overlooking the last battle, but this would have prevented him from becoming independently aware of the Quest and its near fulfilment. So he takes a tumble from Barad-dur itself. The original suicide surfer!


End file.
